FIC: High Hopes 7/7 || Arthur/Eames || NC-17
See PART ONE or MASTER POST for warnings etc.
Word Count for this part: ~7,500
*
VII: The Forger's Heart
Their flight to Los Angeles was uneventful, as was going through airport security. They'd both gone through the same routine so often that they could have done it with their eyes closed. The downside was that it gave Arthur too much time with his thoughts. There was an undercurrent of tension running between him and Eames, a strange but not entirely unwelcome counterpoint to the somewhat impersonal work relationship they'd carved for themselves during the last few months.
Dom was waiting for them when they got through the check points, and Arthur couldn't help but smile a little when he saw him standing there, looking worn and familiar. Dom's forehead smoothed out and he took his hands out of his pockets when he saw Arthur walk through the doors with Eames trailing behind him.
"I half thought to see Phillipa and James with you," Arthur called out when they got closer. "That is, if you hadn't decided to send someone else to fetch us instead of coming yourself."
"I can function without them, you know," Dom said, his tone mild.
"Not really," Arthur said breezily, coming to a stop in front of Dom. "And if you tell me this isn't the longest you've voluntarily been away from them since you got back, I won't believe you."
Dom snorted and shook his head, but he didn't deny it.
"I don't know why I put up with you," he said, even as he stepped forward and drew Arthur into an embrace.
Arthur blinked and let go of his carry-on, feeling awkward as he returned the hug. They didn't do this, he and Dom; apart from the occasional clap on the back, their relationship had never been very physically demonstrative, not even when Mal was alive.
"I think it's the other way around, actually," Arthur managed to say when they pulled apart again.
Dom gave him a smile tinged with gratitude, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt like Dom was really seeing him.
"I know," Dom said, squeezing his shoulder before letting go entirely. He turned to Eames, saying, "Eames. Good to see you."
"Cobb," Eames said, nodding. His expression was friendly enough, but he wasn't bothering to hide that underneath there was wariness, even a hint of hostility -- he was choosing not to let it become a problem, but he hadn't forgiven Dom for putting them at risk during the Fischer job. Arthur couldn't blame him.
Dom gave Eames a rueful smile but didn't say anything, reaching out to take Arthur's luggage.
"Come on, the car's this way," he said, ignoring Arthur's protests.
-
When they arrived at the house, James was in the driveway, riding in circles with a shiny little bicycle with training wheels on.
"An early birthday present?" Arthur asked, nodding at James when Dom pulled to a stop in front of the house.
"Ah," Dom said, taking a hand off the wheel to palm the back of his head. "Yes. From Saito."
"Really," Arthur said, looking at Dom sharply. He'd known that Dom and Saito had formed a connection during the job, but he wasn't exactly happy that they were still in contact now. Dom seemed to consider Saito something of a friend, but Arthur didn't trust easily, and especially not when it came to men like Saito.
"Really," Dom said, rolling his eyes at Arthur's skeptical tone. "Now go and get my kid out of the driveway so I can park. Shoo."
Arthur smacked away the hand Dom was flapping at him and climbed out of the car, closing the door on Eames' chuckles coming from the back seat.
"Jerk," he muttered to himself, not sure which one of them he meant. "Hey, kid," he called out to James, whose head snapped up, his mouth stretching into a wide grin when he caught sight of Arthur, and Arthur felt an intense surge of fondness. He wasn't much of a kid person, but James and Phillipa had always managed to get around that; he'd given up fighting the soft spot he had for them the minute they'd been placed in his arms as babies.
"Arthur!" James said, exited. "Arthur, Arthur, look! I have a new bike!"
"I can see that," Arthur said, giving it an admiring once-over. "Very cool," he decided, and James beamed at him. "Now can I get a hug or what?"
James scrambled off the bike and Arthur squatted down just in time for James to throw his arms around his neck.
"Good to see you, buddy," Arthur said and stood up with a soft 'oof'. "You keep growing up when I look away. I thought we talked about that," he said, chiding, and James giggled an unrepentant 'sorry' into his neck. Arthur settled him on his hip and stooped down to pick up the bike with his free arm, moving both the bike and the boy away from the driveway.
-
James' birthday fell on a weekday, but the party itself was scheduled to take place on the following Saturday. Arthur stayed at the house, but Eames had opted for a hotel. Miles and Magda -- Mal's parents -- had flown in from France and taken the second guest room; Dom had offered to put Eames in the study, but Eames had declined. Arthur didn't blame him -- he had some experience with that futon, and considered it a crime that Dom hadn't yet replaced it.
When he thought to bring it up, and Dom brushed him off with vague promises, Arthur decided that Dom had gotten far too comfortable with the criminal lifestyle during his time on the run.
"If that's the worst of it, I'd say it hardly requires complaint," Eames said when the two of them were cleaning up the kitchen after a late dinner. His expression was mild, but his eyes were laughing; Arthur sniffed, turning the faucet on and filling the sink with water.
"You say that now," he said, slanting a look at Eames. "But if your back ends up getting acquainted with that thing some time in the future, don't come crying to me."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Eames said solemnly, setting a pile of dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink, and whipped up a dish towel in preparation for his drying duty. They'd been living in each others' pockets a lot lately, but that had been for work; there was a sense of domesticity here that was unfamiliar to Arthur, and to have it with Eames of all people -- well, it was unexpected, but not as unwelcome as Arthur might have thought.
"I'm just warning you," he shrugged, watching the plates get submerged into the soapy water, "I'm going to say I told you so."
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Eames said, leaning against the counter as he waited.
Neither of them spoke for a while, but the silence wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Arthur bit the inside of his lip, focusing on his hands as he scrubbed a plate clean.
"You know we have to talk about it at some point, right?" He eventually said, watching Eames from the corner of his eye. Eames stilled, but he wasn't tensing up, which Arthur took as a positive sign. Then again, with Eames it was hard to tell.
"I haven't gone back," Eames said, not pretending he didn't know what the topic was. "And I won't be seeing him in the future."
"Then why do it in the first place?" Arthur wanted to know, frowning as he thought of the projection of his teenage self, the easy, forward manner which Arthur himself had largely lost over the years.
Eames hesitated and then said,
"I'm not terribly accustomed to guilt. Especially not over something like this."
"So it is about that first time," Arthur said, a strange sense of disappointment gnawing at his stomach.
"In part," Eames allowed. Arthur scrubbed the plate harder.
"And," Eames said, glancing at him, "I suppose I wanted to -- talk to you."
Arthur frowned, staring down at his hands, frustration bubbling in his throat.
"What does that even mean?" He asked. "We've been seeing a lot of each other during the past few months. Why should you have to make up a projection of me when I'm right there? That's fucked up."
"That it is," Eames said, and reached out to take the plate Arthur had been washing. "I think it's clean enough, love."
Arthur relinquished his grip on the plate, plunging his hands into the dishwater to start in on the next one.
"Then why?" He finally asked. "Why couldn't you just talk to me?"
"I didn't think you wanted to hear the things I had to say," Eames said after a pause, running the kitchen towel over the rinsed plate in broad strokes.
But I do, Arthur thought, looking at Eames' hands, strong and capable and -- gentle, when no force was needed or wanted, when a touch would do. Eames, I do.
But his mouth was dry, and before he could speak, Dom came into the kitchen, breaking the moment.
"I can't get Phil to settle down, Arthur, she says you promised to read her some book, and it's no good if I do it. Could you...?"
"Yeah, of course, let me just," Arthur said, and Eames offered the towel for him to dry his hands with. "Are you --"
"Yes, yes," Dom said, shooing at him. "Go, I'll take over."
"Okay. Um." He glanced at Eames as he let Dom take his place. "Yeah," he said, giving the towel back. He didn't wait to see if Eames had anything to say about his eloquence or lack thereof, feeling his ears grow hot as he walked out of the kitchen.
"What was that about?" He heard Dom ask as he turned a corner.
"No idea, mate," was Eames' breezy reply.
-
Over the next couple of days, Arthur caught Eames looking at him on occasion, but when he raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Eames just shook his head or sent Arthur a lopsided smile that answered nothing at all. It was just as well; Dom was shameless about getting them to help with the kids' party, and staying at the house meant that Arthur had no breaks from the demands of Phillipa and James, who both had certain perfectly understandable abandonment issues and liked to monopolize Arthur's time when he was around.
James was usually shy with strangers, but he was too exited about his birthday and showing off his new bike to remember his hang-ups, and Eames made all the right, admiring noises to win him over. Phillipa, on the other hand, wasn't shy -- she was suspicious. But Eames won her over as well, telling outrageous stories and, Arthur suspected but did not care to confirm, teaching her how to pick locks when Dom's back was turned. Overall, it was a relief to have Eames around; somehow, miraculously, their unfinished business failed to make things between them stilted and awkward, and being able to rely on Eames to divert attention when all Arthur wanted was to sit down in a corner with his laptop and check up on his contacts in peace was a blessing.
The main event, come Saturday, consisted of Arthur, Eames, Dom, Miles and Magda, James and Phillipa, twelve other kids -- most of whom were James' age and a couple of whom were Phillipa's friends -- and the assorted parents and guardians, because Dom encouraged involved parenting and was, so Arthur thought, attempting to build his home network from the ground up. He was overcompensating, trying to make amends and keep too busy to think at the same time, but Arthur knew Dom wouldn't thank him for the observations, and so he kept his mouth shut; Eames had no such hang ups, but reluctantly took the hint after Arthur had 'accidentally' stepped on his foot once or twice with an impeccable sense of timing.
During the party, which largely took place in the backyard, Arthur did his best to stay out of the way, helping to keep things organized and paying more attention to the food than the kids. For all he doted on Phillipa and James, a house full of children wasn't his scene. More to the point, and despite his experience with Phillipa and James, he wasn't good with kids.
Eames, on the other hand, was. Arthur didn't think Eames was any more used to being around them than he was, thought he admitted he didn't know that for a fact. But Eames was a chameleon, slipping into different roles with ease Arthur envied at times. He didn't envy Eames now, comfortable with being on the sidelines and mostly overlooked while the kids clamored for Eames' attention. Not that he could blame them -- but that was a thought best kept to himself.
Eames indulged the kids in good humor, giving them piggy-back rides and judging their contests, playing charades they seemed to find hilarious, and spinning around with several of them hanging from his arms, screaming with delight.
It was sort of absurd, all considering, but also priceless; Arthur had rarely wanted video footage of anything quite as badly.
When the kids started to get tired and things began to calm down, what was left of the party moved inside; Arthur settled down on the back porch steps and rested his arms on his knees. The lawn was littered with toys and colorful bits of paper, and the muffled sounds that carried over from inside somehow only emphasized the quiet that had settled over the backyard.
After a good few minutes, he heard the door opening and closing behind him, but didn't turn to look. A moment later, Eames sat heavily on the step beside him, digging into his pocket for smokes.
"Man," he said, tapping out a cigarette and putting it between his lips. "Kids are exhausting."
"You're just too charming for your own good," Arthur said, looking away from Eames' mouth.
"You needn't sound so smug about it," Eames grumbled without heat. "Fag?"
Arthur shook his head, and Eames shifted his shoulders, stowing the pack away. He flicked open a lighter and lit his cigarette, closing his eyes on the first inhale.
"I agree though," Arthur said a minute or so later. "About kids, I mean. Give me a gun instead, and at least I know what to do with it."
"You do alright," Eames said, looking over the yard as he blew away the smoke from the corner of his mouth. "I've seen you with James and Phillipa, you can't fool me."
"That's just them, though," Arthur said, rubbing at his wrist absently. He felt Eames looking at him and turned to meet his eyes.
"Then that's enough," Eames said, the look in his eyes soft, unguarded. Then he smiled, a self-deprecating quirk of his lips, and turned to look over the backyard again, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.
They sat in silence for a long time, not moving until Dom came to find them.
-
After helping with the clean up at the Cobb residence, Arthur drove Eames back to his hotel. Instead of dropping him off at the front, Arthur found a parking spot and turned off the engine.
"Can I come up? To talk," he added, flushing, when Eames didn't respond immediately.
"To talk, yes," Eames said, clearing his throat. "Of course."
By mutual, unspoken agreement, neither of them spoke on the way to Eames' room. As he followed Eames into the lobby, his eyes lingering on the breadth of Eames' shoulders, Arthur had trouble remembering why he'd thought this was a good idea. In the elevator, he fiddled with his sleeves, painfully aware of how close Eames was standing. Trying to ignore the growing tension between them, he stared up at the numbers above the doors as they lighted up, one by one, until the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open with a soft chime.
There were a million things Arthur had wanted to ask and say, but as he shut the door to Eames' room, he could think of not a single one. Being in a hotel room with Eames and a king sized bed was doing things to his head, and he almost wished he'd stayed in the car and driven back to Dom's, pushing back their talk by yet another day.
He stepped away from the door; Eames hadn't moved far into the room, and they stood there, facing each other, barely three feet between them. Arthur swallowed, his mouth dry.
"I have to admit, Arthur," Eames said, his eyes flickering to the movement of Arthur's throat, "I don't know what more to tell you about the projection."
"It's not just about that," Arthur said, his hands twitching at his sides. The projection was just a symptom, there were bigger issues here; he pressed his hands briefly against his thighs, trying to focus. "I'm -- we work together. We're -- friends, after a fashion. We should be able to talk to each other."
"We aren't friends, you and I," Eames said, the look in his eyes shadowed, unreadable.
"We could be," Arthur said, and stilled, inhaling sharply when Eames lifted a hand to cup his jaw.
"No, love," Eames said, his thumb brushing against the corner of Arthur's mouth. "We couldn't."
Arthur grabbed Eames' wrist and held his arm in place, finding himself quite abruptly at the end of his rope.
"Stop jerking me around, Eames," he said, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. "Just -- stop."
Something flared up in Eames' eyes then, dark and fierce and defiant, taking Arthur's breath away; Eames twisted his arm free and cupped Arthur's face in his hands, leaning in, his mouth hard and sure and hot against Arthur's. Arthur gasped into the kiss, his hands coming up between them, fluttering like birds against Eames' chest before turning into claws, grasping at his shirt, his shoulders -- tugging at him, pulling him in. The slide of their mouths was slick and wet, and it was too much and not enough, having Eames so close; the scrape of his stubble, the warm scent of his skin -- Arthur wanted to bury his nose against Eames' neck, chase the faint traces of cologne and cigarettes there, wanted to never come up for air that didn't make him think of Eames.
No, not like this --
Arthur pushed Eames back, tensing his arms when Eames made a bereft noise low in his throat and tried to move in again.
"Eames," he said, and winced at how wrecked he sounded already. "Eames, I mean it, don't -- don't do this if you don't mean it, if it's just --"
"It isn't," Eames said, pressing his thumb roughly against Arthur's cheekbone, his free hand coming to rest against Arthur's hip, holding on too tight. "Arthur, I swear to you."
Arthur wanted to believe him, wanted to believe they were on the same page here; he wavered, and the moment he stopped holding Eames back, Eames stepped in close and took possession of his mouth again. Arthur, conflicted and desperate, leaned into it, a surge of hope rising within him, threatening to choke him.
Eames pushed him against a wall, hard, and Arthur gasped, a flash of arousal running through his system, hyper-sensitizing his skin. He felt like a man who'd been dying of thirst and was now drowning, and yet he still wanted more. Eames was hot and solid against him, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted someone this much; he didn't linger on the thought for too long.
"Come on, come on," he said, his fingers clumsy with desire as he tugged at Eames belt; Eames' mouth was on his neck, Eames' fingers impatiently tugging at his shirt, finally sacrificing a few buttons by just yanking it open. Arthur didn't have the presence of mind to care, struggling out of the shirt without complaint.
"What do you want?" Eames asked, murmuring the words against Arthur's skin, making him shiver; his fingers grazed one of Arthur's nipples, skated down over his ribs.
"You," Arthur said, granting him the truth. Arthur turned his head, letting his lips brush against Eames' jaw, drunk on the scent of his skin; he grabbed one of Eames' hands and pressed it flat against his side, dragging it down and around until Eames' fingertips were resting below his waistband.
"Wait," Eames said, sounding breathless and gruff. He extracted his hand from Arthur's hold and rooted through his pockets, coming up with a condom before Arthur could complain.
"I was a Boy Scout," Eames told him when he saw Arthur's raised eyebrow, a corner of his lips quirking up.
"A liar is what you are," Arthur said and snatched the condom from Eames' fingers, ripping the packet open with his teeth.
"You've so little faith in me," Eames mourned, his breath catching as Arthur pushed his underwear out of the way and rolled the condom on him, his fingers lingering, reacquainting himself with the feel and weight of Eames' cock -- "Stop that."
"Make me," Arthur said, and Eames narrowed his eyes, the only warning Arthur got before Eames spun him around to face the wall. Arthur shivered when Eames stepped in close and ran his calloused hands down Arthur's front. Arthur didn't usually like it like this -- against a wall, from behind -- but it was Eames, and somehow that made all the difference.
"Your wish is my command," Eames said, his mouth brushing against Arthur's ear with every syllable; it should have sounded stupid, a cliché, but Arthur didn't care, was barely able to think, his breath coming short and his skin flushing. He leaned his forearms against the wall above his head as Eames fumbled with his fly and tugged his pants and underwear down, helping by kicking them off when they puddled around his ankles.
Arthur half-closed his eyes when Eames slid his palms over his thighs and ass, when he ran his fingers up the crack between Arthur's cheeks, brushing against his entrance; Arthur ducked his head, his cheeks heating up with how much he wanted this.
"Are you sure?" Eames asked, rough and quiet, like he was half-afraid he was dreaming; it did things to Arthur's insides.
"Yes," he said, and the touch disappeared for a moment. Then Eames was pushing two thick, spit-slick fingers into him, and Arthur gasped, tilting his head back.
"Enough," he said, too soon. "Eames, enough."
"Yeah?" Eames said, but he was already slipping his fingers free.
"Yeah," Arthur said, swallowing thickly when he felt the blunt head of Eames' cock at his entrance, one of Eames' hands coming to rest on his hip again.
Eames pressed in, and Arthur bit his lip against the burn, pushing back to take more instead of shying away. Halfway in, Eames paused.
"Alright, love?" He asked, and any other time Arthur might have appreciated the strain of restraint in his voice.
"Fine, I'm fine," Arthur said, digging his nails against the wall. "Move," he commanded, and moaned as Eames did, pushing in until his whole length was buried within Arthur, uncomfortable and perfect; Arthur gasped for breath, his mouth hanging open, and Eames' grip on him tightened.
"Arthur, God," Eames said, pressing his face against Arthur's shoulder as he slowly pulled out again. Arthur shivered at the scrape of stubble against his skin, squeezing his eyes shut against the stretch of Eames' cock forcing him open, the burning slide as Eames set out to find a rhythm. Arthur leaned his head against his forearms, his breath a shuddering, unstable thing. The room was filled with their panting, groaning breaths, the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh, the slide of sweaty skin; Eames kept repeating Arthur's name on broken intervals like it was the only word he knew, his fingers pressing bruises against Arthur's skin, and even as it hurt, it almost wasn't enough.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me," Arthur chanted, pushing his hips back to meet Eames' thrusts, urging him to hold on tighter, fuck him harder; there was pain and desire coiling at the base of his spine, and he bit down on Eames' name, wanting, wanting --
-- and silently, in the privacy of his mind, he thought, Please.
Please.
-
Afterward -- after quick, separate showers and few meaningless words -- Arthur found himself reluctant to go back to the house, and not just because the sex hadn't really resolved anything; when Eames gave no indication of wanting Arthur to leave, Arthur sent Dom a message not to expect him back until tomorrow. He felt wrung out, emotionally more so than physically, and thought it would be better if he and Eames talked about it in the morning, when they were both rested. This thing between them, whatever it was, whatever it could become, felt horribly tentative, fragile; Arthur didn't want to take any chances with it.
When they lay in bed, contentment wrestling with apprehension in the back of Arthur's sleepy mind, he reached out and took hold of Eames' forearm, his fingernails pressing half-moon crescents against the skin there.
"If you're gone when I wake up," he said, "I'll hunt you down and kill you."
Eames took his hand and brought it up to his mouth, the soft press of his lips against Arthur's fingers like a promise. If there were words, Arthur didn't hear them; the kiss still lingered on his skin when sleep swallowed him whole.
-
It was stretching out an arm across the bed and finding nothing but an empty expanse of mattress that had Arthur sitting up and blinking at the empty room before he even realized he'd woken up.
It took him a minute to get his bearings and recognize the sound for what it was -- water being turned off -- and by then Eames had appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked bleary, his hair was sleep tousled, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, half-obscured by stubble; he was by far the most gorgeous thing Arthur had ever seen.
Seeing Arthur awake and sitting up, Eames began to smile; he was reaching for the bathroom light switch when something about Arthur's expression made him pause, the beginnings of his smile fading.
He turned off the light and stepped out of the doorway, his gaze flickering over Arthur, from his too-wide eyes to his hands, which were clenched against the sheets. Arthur tried to relax, to smooth out his expression, but it was too late. He could see it on Eames' face, the moment he put the pieces together.
Arthur drew his knees up and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling pathetic. What a stupid overreaction; a split second of believing Eames had walked out on him, and he was a mess.
"I really did a number on you, didn't I?" Eames said, his expression shuttered.
"It's fine," Arthur said, hoping they could just gloss over it. "I'm fine."
"Like hell you are." Eames crossed his arms, and Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Let's just -- not," he said, wanting to avoid a childish is-isn't argument. "It doesn't matter."
"I thought you wanted to talk," Eames pointed out, and Arthur shrugged, looking away.
"Not about this," he said. "Come on, enough. Come back to bed."
For a moment, Arthur thought Eames might push it, or worse, decide Arthur wasn't worth it after all; Arthur hated himself for feeling so insecure, hated that however confident he'd become in other areas of his life, Eames remained, as always, the exception. He needn't have worried; Eames uncrossed his arms and walked to the bed, climbing in and flopping down on his back next to Arthur with a huff. Arthur remained sitting but twisted around so he didn't have his back to Eames.
Eames was staring at the ceiling, and Arthur took the opportunity to look at him, tracing the lines of Eames' face and body with his eyes, his fingers itching to touch.
"What are we doing?" He asked instead of giving in to the impulse, crossing his arms loosely over his knees.
Eames glanced at him, smiling a little when their eyes met.
"I don't know," he said. "We'll figure it out."
"We will?" Arthur didn't mean to sound skeptical, but it came out that way regardless. Eames looked back at the ceiling.
"I'm not saying it'll be easy," he said, drumming his fingers against his stomach. "To be honest with you, I'm not actually sure I know how to do this."
"Do what?" Arthur asked, frowning.
"Settle down." Eames turned to look at Arthur again. "But I'll try. I'll try, for you."
Arthur swallowed and tried not to let his reaction show.
"Who said anything about settling down," he said, his tone light.
"You know what I mean," Eames said, reaching out to touch Arthur's ankle, dropping his gaze as he rubbed his thumb against the bone there. "A proper relationship, all that comes with it."
"I'm not sure I do," Arthur said, because it was true, and because he was thirsty for Eames' words, for clarity.
"I've always been a bit of a coward when it comes to relationships," Eames said, licking his lips before continuing; "Always taking off rather than taking a chance, never caring enough to put myself at risk. But you -- I don't want to not have you."
"I'm not really good with relationships either," Arthur confessed, feeling awkward. And I don't want to not have you, too, he thought, but the words got stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.
There was a momentary pause, as if Eames was weighing whether he wanted to say whatever he was thinking of saying next, and then asked,
"What about that guy in New York?"
Arthur shrugged, the touch on his ankle suddenly making him uncomfortable; he lay down on his side on the bed, Eames' hand falling away in the process.
"It was never serious. With Hale," Arthur said, shifting against the pillows. "I never wanted it to be."
"So I might've had a chance with you earlier, if I'd tried?" Eames said, looking faintly troubled. Arthur picked at the sheets, absent-minded.
"Could be," he said, because he still wasn't ready to give Eames everything.
"I thought about it," Eames said, abrupt. "About asking you out, proper like, after. But there was that picture, of you and him." The Fischer job, Arthur thought, feeling a trace of something like relief, remembering how he'd felt, thinking Eames had walked away with no second thoughts after the job. "And I figured, that was that," Eames was saying. "I wasn't going to put myself on the line when it was clear that you were finished with me, and had been for years. I hadn't any right to mess with that, especially after what I did when we first met."
Arthur tilted his head, looking at Eames profile.
"But you didn't stay away," he pointed out.
"No," Eames said, glancing at Arthur with a rueful quirk of his lips. "I've always liked you more than is good for either of us, and it turns out I'm not that different, after all, from when we first met. You've fallen in with a selfish man, my love." He turned toward Arthur, holding his gaze. "I may not be any good at this, Arthur, but I have no intention of letting you go now that I have you."
Arthur tried to bite down on a smile but failed; he could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then Eames was smiling too, slow and real, and it made Arthur feel light-headed. Eames reached out, touching his fingertips against Arthur's dimples. It was a little bit embarrassing but just then, Arthur didn't care.
Eames brushed his fingers over Arthur's cheekbone, around his ear; the look in his eyes was soft, unguarded.
"I should've realized earlier that you weren't with Hale anymore, but I was avoiding the topic on purpose. You're a bit of a blind spot to me," Eames said, and Arthur's smile slowly faded into something smaller, more private.
"That's -- comforting, actually," he said, running his fingertips over Eames' forearm, back and forth. "Inconvenient, but comforting."
Eames slid his hand down Arthur's neck and to his shoulder. He pushed Arthur on his back and rose up on his elbow in one fluid movement; Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't protest.
"I don't know about comforting," Eames said. "For someone as smart as I am, I can be distressingly, willfully unobservant at times."
"Modest too," Arthur replied. "And it was to protect yourself; that's understandable."
"Not how I would've put it, but fair enough," Eames said, sliding his hand down Arthur's chest, pausing to play with a nipple before running his fingers down the ladder of Arthur's ribs.
"I can deal with it," Arthur promised, shifting against the bed, pushing subtly into the touch. "I can deal with you."
"Now that," Eames said, wrapping his hand loosely around Arthur's half-hard cock, "I find comforting."
"As you should," Arthur said, his breath hitching as Eames tightened his hold and dragged his fist upward.
Eames ducked his head and licked a stripe up to the nipple he'd previously neglected, pulling out a strangled moan from Arthur when he bit down on it.
Under Eames' ministrations, getting fully hard was little more than an afterthought, and Arthur was left blinking at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing. He didn't want to come from just a handjob; proper motivation or not, he thought, thinking back to that first time, he wasn't seventeen anymore. He took hold of Eames' wrist and pushed his hand further down, unmistakable in its intent.
Eames lifted his head and arched an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything, just glanced down at where his hand disappeared between Arthur's legs and licked his lips.
"This is what you want?" He asked, his fingertips brushing against Arthur's ass cheeks but not dipping down into the crack between.
"Yes," Arthur said, drawing his legs further up and canting his hips. "You don't have to keep asking."
"I want to," Eames said, bending down to nip at Arthur's jaw.
"I'm not seventeen anymore," Arthur said, beginning to tense up.
"I know." When Eames lifted his head, there was a frown marring his expression. He slid a heavy hand up the inside of Arthur's thigh, soothing. "I know that."
"Do you wish I still was?" Arthur demanded; it was irrational, but suddenly he couldn't stop thinking that maybe Eames hadn't been telling the truth about the projection after all, that maybe --
"No," Eames said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He nudged one of Arthur's legs further up and to the side, and touched the skin behind Arthur's balls with his thumb, pressing down, making Arthur jump a little, his stomach tensing and relaxing at the touch.
"You aren't who you were when we first met, neither of us is, and that's fine," Eames was saying even as he pushed his fingers gently against Arthur's hole; Arthur shivered, oversensitive, and thought of how unfair Eames was being, using his body to distract him. "I'm not pining over some kid I met in my twenties, even if that kid was you; but the years that changed you -- I have no part in them. I know that's how it had to be, but don't just expect me to forget. Don't expect me to have no regrets."
"Eames --"
"I kept tabs on you," Eames said, talking over him, his expression intense, the touch of his fingers shallow, a tease more than anything else; "Especially after Mal. And I didn't notice it at first, but the way we never ended up working together before the Fischer job? I know you did that on purpose."
"I don't --" Arthur started to say, and broke off on a gasp when one of Eames' fingers breached him dry, making him wince; it retreated almost immediately.
"Never mind," Eames said, his fingertips brushing against the rim of Arthur's hole almost apologetically. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say. The projection --"
"I thought you didn't have anything more to say about that," Arthur said, licking his lips.
"It seems I was wrong, then," Eames said. Arthur lifted a hand to his cheek, touching the fragile skin below the eye; Eames' lashes brushed against Arthur's fingertips when he blinked. "I wouldn't want you to be seventeen again, believe me. But I can't deny that some part of me resents the years that changed you, resents having had no part in them, and I suppose -- I wanted a reminder of who you used to be."
"Who I used to be." Arthur wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. Eames bent down and pressed his lips against Arthur's, a soft, lingering pressure.
"Mine," Eames said when their lips parted, and Arthur was left staring at Eames, at the expression in his eyes; "You used to be mine, however briefly, however little I appreciated it at the time."
"You're such a fool," Arthur managed to say, his voice thick, and Eames chuckled, burying his face against Arthur's throat.
"I'm aware," he muttered against Arthur's skin. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, tangling one hand in Eames' hair.
"God," Arthur said a moment later, scowling at the ceiling. "I can't believe we're having this conversation while you have your hand on my ass."
Eames' frame shook as he laughed, and Arthur rolled his eyes even though there was a smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth.
"No, you're right," Eames said when he got himself under control, extracting himself from Arthur's hold. "We should be making better use of our time."
He removed his hand from between Arthur's legs and leaned over him, reaching for the lube on the bedside table -- some things never changed.
Arthur snorted but didn't pretend he'd been wishing for any other outcome; he spread his legs for Eames, who shifted to kneel between them, and welcomed back the now slick fingers.
"We're good, right?" Eames asked, spreading the lube around the rim before slowly pushing one finger in.
"We're good," Arthur said, his voice catching in his throat. He was still sore from the night before but more than that, he felt greedy, wanton. He wanted Eames; it seemed like he always would.
By the time Eames was lining up his cock, Arthur was a shivering mess of want and frustration -- and then Eames stopped, his expression turning awkward.
"What?" Arthur rose up on his elbows, breathless and annoyed at the delay.
"Condoms," Eames said, scratching the back of his head with the hand not covered in slick. "I only had the one we used last night."
Arthur dropped back against the pillows with a groan.
"I take it you don't have any either." Eames sounded resigned.
"I came here to talk," Arthur said, feeling grumpy. He weighed his options and found them all lacking; he wished he could have been surprised that a heartbeat later, he made the sort of stupid, reckless decision he'd thought he'd grown out of.
"Are you clean?" He asked, locking his eyes with Eames'.
"Yes. But darling," Eames had the nerve to say, "You can't just take my word for it."
Arthur brushed away his irritation at Eames' condescending tone; there were more important matters at hand.
"I can, if you take mine," Arthur said with the sort of logic that should have only been used by very drunk, very desperate people, if then; "I got my test results back four months ago, and I haven't been with anyone since."
"You know better than this," Eames said, rubbing his thumb against Arthur's knee. "I know better than this."
The head of his cock nudged at Arthur's entrance, hot and sticky, and Arthur couldn't stand the thought of not having it inside of him within the next five minutes.
"Eames," Arthur said -- pleaded -- and that's all it took; Eames leaned over him and made a noise that could have been classified as a growl, pushing in.
Eames had spent far too long stretching him, his blunt, thick fingers working Arthur open, soothing away the soreness from the night before; Arthur still ached around the intrusion, but it was sweet, like summer wine.
"Arthur," Eames said when he was all the way in, his weight settling in the cradle of Arthur's hips. He was breathing hard, his eyes closed; Arthur's mouth was dry, and he pulled his knees further up, groaning at the shift of Eames' length within his body.
"It's good," he breathed, leaving lingering touches on Eames' cheeks, his throat, his shoulders. It's always good with you.
Arthur bit his lip when Eames slowly pulled out until just the head was inside, stretching his entrance, and then pressed back in, an unhurried, torturous slide that made Arthur swallow down a desperate whine.
By the fourth thrust, Arthur's thighs were trembling against Eames' flanks, and they were both slick with perspiration; Arthur could feel it pooling at the hollow of his throat, and his cock was dragging against Eames' stomach, pre-come mixing with sweat.
Eames licked at the seam of Arthur's lips, making Arthur realize he was biting his lip again; he opened his mouth with a gasp, straining a little to capture Eames' mouth into a kiss, gentle teeth and slick skin, a hundred nerve endings lighting up and begging for more.
"You're still here," Arthur murmured when their mouths parted, something a little bit like awe slipping into his voice.
"Where else would I be?" Eames said, his teeth grazing Arthur's swollen lower lip even as his hands slid up Arthur's arms and pushed them against the bed, holding them there. He was slow to pick up his pace, but Arthur didn't mind, feeling intoxicated as he closed his eyes and rocked into Eames' lazy, measured thrusts, grateful for every touch, every ache.
"You like this?" Eames sounded half-drunk himself. "Being under me; being held down, held open."
"Yes." It was the simplest truth Arthur knew, and he was years past feeling ashamed of his own desires.
Eames' hands tightened around his wrists compulsively, and Arthur's hips twitched, his legs falling open, begging for more.
"Bleeding, buggering fuck," Eames groaned. "You'll be the death of me."
Arthur opened his eyes, feeling his eyelashes separate from each other where they'd gotten clumped together, and summoned up a smirk.
"Is this your way of telling me my death threats get you off?" He inquired, and Eames' narrowed his eyes. His next thrust was sharp, ungentle, and made Arthur's toes curl against the sheets.
"I'd almost forgotten what an impertinent little brat you can be," Eames said with a nip at Arthur's collarbone.
"Ah," Arthur laughed, blinking sweat from his eyes. "Sweet-talking will get you everywhere."
"I'm already right where I want to be," Eames said.
"There goes my leverage," Arthur said, his eyes crinkling.
"You're impossible." Eames shook his head, but he sounded unbearably fond, like nothing Arthur had ever thought he'd hear.
"You're one to talk," Arthur said, wrapping his legs around Eames' hips and pulling one hand free to tug Eames down into an open mouthed kiss; he closed his eyes and let himself drown in it.
Arthur came first, making a mess between their bodies. Eames followed him shortly after, his rhythm faltering, his hips jerking as he came, spilling inside Arthur, filling him up; Arthur's cock twitched, making a valiant but doomed effort at showing its appreciation, and Arthur let out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan when Eames carefully pulled out.
"What?" Eames asked, slumping against Arthur, his face pressed against the side of Arthur's neck. "Are you already laughing at me? You shouldn't even be able to think yet, that's cheating."
"No," Arthur said, sliding his fingers through Eames' hair. "It's nothing. I'm just -- I'm happy," he said, his mirth turning into wonder; "I'm happy," he repeated, his voice soft.
Eames made an effort to rise up on his elbow and just looked at Arthur for a minute, his hand coming up to trace the bridge of Arthur's nose, the bow of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows; then he kissed Arthur, slow and sweet, taking his time.
"Hi," Arthur said, his cheeks dimpling, when Eames pulled back.
"Hi," Eames gave him another kiss, shorter this time. "I don't ever want to leave you again," he said. "Not for long; not for good."
"Okay," Arthur said, feeling sore and sticky and content. "I can live with that."
"Good," Eames said, tugging him until they were laying on their sides, facing each other; he pulled Arthur close and ran a possessive hand down his back, his fingers dipping down to where Arthur was still stretched open, Eames' come trickling out of him, smearing the sheets, the backs of his thighs.
Arthur pressed his lips briefly against Eames' chest and closed his eyes, his hand splayed against Eames' back. This thing they had, it wasn't perfect; it was better than that.
It was the closest thing to home Arthur could imagine.
****
fin
Word Count for this part: ~7,500
*
VII: The Forger's Heart
Their flight to Los Angeles was uneventful, as was going through airport security. They'd both gone through the same routine so often that they could have done it with their eyes closed. The downside was that it gave Arthur too much time with his thoughts. There was an undercurrent of tension running between him and Eames, a strange but not entirely unwelcome counterpoint to the somewhat impersonal work relationship they'd carved for themselves during the last few months.
Dom was waiting for them when they got through the check points, and Arthur couldn't help but smile a little when he saw him standing there, looking worn and familiar. Dom's forehead smoothed out and he took his hands out of his pockets when he saw Arthur walk through the doors with Eames trailing behind him.
"I half thought to see Phillipa and James with you," Arthur called out when they got closer. "That is, if you hadn't decided to send someone else to fetch us instead of coming yourself."
"I can function without them, you know," Dom said, his tone mild.
"Not really," Arthur said breezily, coming to a stop in front of Dom. "And if you tell me this isn't the longest you've voluntarily been away from them since you got back, I won't believe you."
Dom snorted and shook his head, but he didn't deny it.
"I don't know why I put up with you," he said, even as he stepped forward and drew Arthur into an embrace.
Arthur blinked and let go of his carry-on, feeling awkward as he returned the hug. They didn't do this, he and Dom; apart from the occasional clap on the back, their relationship had never been very physically demonstrative, not even when Mal was alive.
"I think it's the other way around, actually," Arthur managed to say when they pulled apart again.
Dom gave him a smile tinged with gratitude, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt like Dom was really seeing him.
"I know," Dom said, squeezing his shoulder before letting go entirely. He turned to Eames, saying, "Eames. Good to see you."
"Cobb," Eames said, nodding. His expression was friendly enough, but he wasn't bothering to hide that underneath there was wariness, even a hint of hostility -- he was choosing not to let it become a problem, but he hadn't forgiven Dom for putting them at risk during the Fischer job. Arthur couldn't blame him.
Dom gave Eames a rueful smile but didn't say anything, reaching out to take Arthur's luggage.
"Come on, the car's this way," he said, ignoring Arthur's protests.
-
When they arrived at the house, James was in the driveway, riding in circles with a shiny little bicycle with training wheels on.
"An early birthday present?" Arthur asked, nodding at James when Dom pulled to a stop in front of the house.
"Ah," Dom said, taking a hand off the wheel to palm the back of his head. "Yes. From Saito."
"Really," Arthur said, looking at Dom sharply. He'd known that Dom and Saito had formed a connection during the job, but he wasn't exactly happy that they were still in contact now. Dom seemed to consider Saito something of a friend, but Arthur didn't trust easily, and especially not when it came to men like Saito.
"Really," Dom said, rolling his eyes at Arthur's skeptical tone. "Now go and get my kid out of the driveway so I can park. Shoo."
Arthur smacked away the hand Dom was flapping at him and climbed out of the car, closing the door on Eames' chuckles coming from the back seat.
"Jerk," he muttered to himself, not sure which one of them he meant. "Hey, kid," he called out to James, whose head snapped up, his mouth stretching into a wide grin when he caught sight of Arthur, and Arthur felt an intense surge of fondness. He wasn't much of a kid person, but James and Phillipa had always managed to get around that; he'd given up fighting the soft spot he had for them the minute they'd been placed in his arms as babies.
"Arthur!" James said, exited. "Arthur, Arthur, look! I have a new bike!"
"I can see that," Arthur said, giving it an admiring once-over. "Very cool," he decided, and James beamed at him. "Now can I get a hug or what?"
James scrambled off the bike and Arthur squatted down just in time for James to throw his arms around his neck.
"Good to see you, buddy," Arthur said and stood up with a soft 'oof'. "You keep growing up when I look away. I thought we talked about that," he said, chiding, and James giggled an unrepentant 'sorry' into his neck. Arthur settled him on his hip and stooped down to pick up the bike with his free arm, moving both the bike and the boy away from the driveway.
-
James' birthday fell on a weekday, but the party itself was scheduled to take place on the following Saturday. Arthur stayed at the house, but Eames had opted for a hotel. Miles and Magda -- Mal's parents -- had flown in from France and taken the second guest room; Dom had offered to put Eames in the study, but Eames had declined. Arthur didn't blame him -- he had some experience with that futon, and considered it a crime that Dom hadn't yet replaced it.
When he thought to bring it up, and Dom brushed him off with vague promises, Arthur decided that Dom had gotten far too comfortable with the criminal lifestyle during his time on the run.
"If that's the worst of it, I'd say it hardly requires complaint," Eames said when the two of them were cleaning up the kitchen after a late dinner. His expression was mild, but his eyes were laughing; Arthur sniffed, turning the faucet on and filling the sink with water.
"You say that now," he said, slanting a look at Eames. "But if your back ends up getting acquainted with that thing some time in the future, don't come crying to me."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Eames said solemnly, setting a pile of dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink, and whipped up a dish towel in preparation for his drying duty. They'd been living in each others' pockets a lot lately, but that had been for work; there was a sense of domesticity here that was unfamiliar to Arthur, and to have it with Eames of all people -- well, it was unexpected, but not as unwelcome as Arthur might have thought.
"I'm just warning you," he shrugged, watching the plates get submerged into the soapy water, "I'm going to say I told you so."
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Eames said, leaning against the counter as he waited.
Neither of them spoke for a while, but the silence wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Arthur bit the inside of his lip, focusing on his hands as he scrubbed a plate clean.
"You know we have to talk about it at some point, right?" He eventually said, watching Eames from the corner of his eye. Eames stilled, but he wasn't tensing up, which Arthur took as a positive sign. Then again, with Eames it was hard to tell.
"I haven't gone back," Eames said, not pretending he didn't know what the topic was. "And I won't be seeing him in the future."
"Then why do it in the first place?" Arthur wanted to know, frowning as he thought of the projection of his teenage self, the easy, forward manner which Arthur himself had largely lost over the years.
Eames hesitated and then said,
"I'm not terribly accustomed to guilt. Especially not over something like this."
"So it is about that first time," Arthur said, a strange sense of disappointment gnawing at his stomach.
"In part," Eames allowed. Arthur scrubbed the plate harder.
"And," Eames said, glancing at him, "I suppose I wanted to -- talk to you."
Arthur frowned, staring down at his hands, frustration bubbling in his throat.
"What does that even mean?" He asked. "We've been seeing a lot of each other during the past few months. Why should you have to make up a projection of me when I'm right there? That's fucked up."
"That it is," Eames said, and reached out to take the plate Arthur had been washing. "I think it's clean enough, love."
Arthur relinquished his grip on the plate, plunging his hands into the dishwater to start in on the next one.
"Then why?" He finally asked. "Why couldn't you just talk to me?"
"I didn't think you wanted to hear the things I had to say," Eames said after a pause, running the kitchen towel over the rinsed plate in broad strokes.
But I do, Arthur thought, looking at Eames' hands, strong and capable and -- gentle, when no force was needed or wanted, when a touch would do. Eames, I do.
But his mouth was dry, and before he could speak, Dom came into the kitchen, breaking the moment.
"I can't get Phil to settle down, Arthur, she says you promised to read her some book, and it's no good if I do it. Could you...?"
"Yeah, of course, let me just," Arthur said, and Eames offered the towel for him to dry his hands with. "Are you --"
"Yes, yes," Dom said, shooing at him. "Go, I'll take over."
"Okay. Um." He glanced at Eames as he let Dom take his place. "Yeah," he said, giving the towel back. He didn't wait to see if Eames had anything to say about his eloquence or lack thereof, feeling his ears grow hot as he walked out of the kitchen.
"What was that about?" He heard Dom ask as he turned a corner.
"No idea, mate," was Eames' breezy reply.
-
Over the next couple of days, Arthur caught Eames looking at him on occasion, but when he raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Eames just shook his head or sent Arthur a lopsided smile that answered nothing at all. It was just as well; Dom was shameless about getting them to help with the kids' party, and staying at the house meant that Arthur had no breaks from the demands of Phillipa and James, who both had certain perfectly understandable abandonment issues and liked to monopolize Arthur's time when he was around.
James was usually shy with strangers, but he was too exited about his birthday and showing off his new bike to remember his hang-ups, and Eames made all the right, admiring noises to win him over. Phillipa, on the other hand, wasn't shy -- she was suspicious. But Eames won her over as well, telling outrageous stories and, Arthur suspected but did not care to confirm, teaching her how to pick locks when Dom's back was turned. Overall, it was a relief to have Eames around; somehow, miraculously, their unfinished business failed to make things between them stilted and awkward, and being able to rely on Eames to divert attention when all Arthur wanted was to sit down in a corner with his laptop and check up on his contacts in peace was a blessing.
The main event, come Saturday, consisted of Arthur, Eames, Dom, Miles and Magda, James and Phillipa, twelve other kids -- most of whom were James' age and a couple of whom were Phillipa's friends -- and the assorted parents and guardians, because Dom encouraged involved parenting and was, so Arthur thought, attempting to build his home network from the ground up. He was overcompensating, trying to make amends and keep too busy to think at the same time, but Arthur knew Dom wouldn't thank him for the observations, and so he kept his mouth shut; Eames had no such hang ups, but reluctantly took the hint after Arthur had 'accidentally' stepped on his foot once or twice with an impeccable sense of timing.
During the party, which largely took place in the backyard, Arthur did his best to stay out of the way, helping to keep things organized and paying more attention to the food than the kids. For all he doted on Phillipa and James, a house full of children wasn't his scene. More to the point, and despite his experience with Phillipa and James, he wasn't good with kids.
Eames, on the other hand, was. Arthur didn't think Eames was any more used to being around them than he was, thought he admitted he didn't know that for a fact. But Eames was a chameleon, slipping into different roles with ease Arthur envied at times. He didn't envy Eames now, comfortable with being on the sidelines and mostly overlooked while the kids clamored for Eames' attention. Not that he could blame them -- but that was a thought best kept to himself.
Eames indulged the kids in good humor, giving them piggy-back rides and judging their contests, playing charades they seemed to find hilarious, and spinning around with several of them hanging from his arms, screaming with delight.
It was sort of absurd, all considering, but also priceless; Arthur had rarely wanted video footage of anything quite as badly.
When the kids started to get tired and things began to calm down, what was left of the party moved inside; Arthur settled down on the back porch steps and rested his arms on his knees. The lawn was littered with toys and colorful bits of paper, and the muffled sounds that carried over from inside somehow only emphasized the quiet that had settled over the backyard.
After a good few minutes, he heard the door opening and closing behind him, but didn't turn to look. A moment later, Eames sat heavily on the step beside him, digging into his pocket for smokes.
"Man," he said, tapping out a cigarette and putting it between his lips. "Kids are exhausting."
"You're just too charming for your own good," Arthur said, looking away from Eames' mouth.
"You needn't sound so smug about it," Eames grumbled without heat. "Fag?"
Arthur shook his head, and Eames shifted his shoulders, stowing the pack away. He flicked open a lighter and lit his cigarette, closing his eyes on the first inhale.
"I agree though," Arthur said a minute or so later. "About kids, I mean. Give me a gun instead, and at least I know what to do with it."
"You do alright," Eames said, looking over the yard as he blew away the smoke from the corner of his mouth. "I've seen you with James and Phillipa, you can't fool me."
"That's just them, though," Arthur said, rubbing at his wrist absently. He felt Eames looking at him and turned to meet his eyes.
"Then that's enough," Eames said, the look in his eyes soft, unguarded. Then he smiled, a self-deprecating quirk of his lips, and turned to look over the backyard again, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.
They sat in silence for a long time, not moving until Dom came to find them.
-
After helping with the clean up at the Cobb residence, Arthur drove Eames back to his hotel. Instead of dropping him off at the front, Arthur found a parking spot and turned off the engine.
"Can I come up? To talk," he added, flushing, when Eames didn't respond immediately.
"To talk, yes," Eames said, clearing his throat. "Of course."
By mutual, unspoken agreement, neither of them spoke on the way to Eames' room. As he followed Eames into the lobby, his eyes lingering on the breadth of Eames' shoulders, Arthur had trouble remembering why he'd thought this was a good idea. In the elevator, he fiddled with his sleeves, painfully aware of how close Eames was standing. Trying to ignore the growing tension between them, he stared up at the numbers above the doors as they lighted up, one by one, until the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open with a soft chime.
There were a million things Arthur had wanted to ask and say, but as he shut the door to Eames' room, he could think of not a single one. Being in a hotel room with Eames and a king sized bed was doing things to his head, and he almost wished he'd stayed in the car and driven back to Dom's, pushing back their talk by yet another day.
He stepped away from the door; Eames hadn't moved far into the room, and they stood there, facing each other, barely three feet between them. Arthur swallowed, his mouth dry.
"I have to admit, Arthur," Eames said, his eyes flickering to the movement of Arthur's throat, "I don't know what more to tell you about the projection."
"It's not just about that," Arthur said, his hands twitching at his sides. The projection was just a symptom, there were bigger issues here; he pressed his hands briefly against his thighs, trying to focus. "I'm -- we work together. We're -- friends, after a fashion. We should be able to talk to each other."
"We aren't friends, you and I," Eames said, the look in his eyes shadowed, unreadable.
"We could be," Arthur said, and stilled, inhaling sharply when Eames lifted a hand to cup his jaw.
"No, love," Eames said, his thumb brushing against the corner of Arthur's mouth. "We couldn't."
Arthur grabbed Eames' wrist and held his arm in place, finding himself quite abruptly at the end of his rope.
"Stop jerking me around, Eames," he said, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. "Just -- stop."
Something flared up in Eames' eyes then, dark and fierce and defiant, taking Arthur's breath away; Eames twisted his arm free and cupped Arthur's face in his hands, leaning in, his mouth hard and sure and hot against Arthur's. Arthur gasped into the kiss, his hands coming up between them, fluttering like birds against Eames' chest before turning into claws, grasping at his shirt, his shoulders -- tugging at him, pulling him in. The slide of their mouths was slick and wet, and it was too much and not enough, having Eames so close; the scrape of his stubble, the warm scent of his skin -- Arthur wanted to bury his nose against Eames' neck, chase the faint traces of cologne and cigarettes there, wanted to never come up for air that didn't make him think of Eames.
No, not like this --
Arthur pushed Eames back, tensing his arms when Eames made a bereft noise low in his throat and tried to move in again.
"Eames," he said, and winced at how wrecked he sounded already. "Eames, I mean it, don't -- don't do this if you don't mean it, if it's just --"
"It isn't," Eames said, pressing his thumb roughly against Arthur's cheekbone, his free hand coming to rest against Arthur's hip, holding on too tight. "Arthur, I swear to you."
Arthur wanted to believe him, wanted to believe they were on the same page here; he wavered, and the moment he stopped holding Eames back, Eames stepped in close and took possession of his mouth again. Arthur, conflicted and desperate, leaned into it, a surge of hope rising within him, threatening to choke him.
Eames pushed him against a wall, hard, and Arthur gasped, a flash of arousal running through his system, hyper-sensitizing his skin. He felt like a man who'd been dying of thirst and was now drowning, and yet he still wanted more. Eames was hot and solid against him, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted someone this much; he didn't linger on the thought for too long.
"Come on, come on," he said, his fingers clumsy with desire as he tugged at Eames belt; Eames' mouth was on his neck, Eames' fingers impatiently tugging at his shirt, finally sacrificing a few buttons by just yanking it open. Arthur didn't have the presence of mind to care, struggling out of the shirt without complaint.
"What do you want?" Eames asked, murmuring the words against Arthur's skin, making him shiver; his fingers grazed one of Arthur's nipples, skated down over his ribs.
"You," Arthur said, granting him the truth. Arthur turned his head, letting his lips brush against Eames' jaw, drunk on the scent of his skin; he grabbed one of Eames' hands and pressed it flat against his side, dragging it down and around until Eames' fingertips were resting below his waistband.
"Wait," Eames said, sounding breathless and gruff. He extracted his hand from Arthur's hold and rooted through his pockets, coming up with a condom before Arthur could complain.
"I was a Boy Scout," Eames told him when he saw Arthur's raised eyebrow, a corner of his lips quirking up.
"A liar is what you are," Arthur said and snatched the condom from Eames' fingers, ripping the packet open with his teeth.
"You've so little faith in me," Eames mourned, his breath catching as Arthur pushed his underwear out of the way and rolled the condom on him, his fingers lingering, reacquainting himself with the feel and weight of Eames' cock -- "Stop that."
"Make me," Arthur said, and Eames narrowed his eyes, the only warning Arthur got before Eames spun him around to face the wall. Arthur shivered when Eames stepped in close and ran his calloused hands down Arthur's front. Arthur didn't usually like it like this -- against a wall, from behind -- but it was Eames, and somehow that made all the difference.
"Your wish is my command," Eames said, his mouth brushing against Arthur's ear with every syllable; it should have sounded stupid, a cliché, but Arthur didn't care, was barely able to think, his breath coming short and his skin flushing. He leaned his forearms against the wall above his head as Eames fumbled with his fly and tugged his pants and underwear down, helping by kicking them off when they puddled around his ankles.
Arthur half-closed his eyes when Eames slid his palms over his thighs and ass, when he ran his fingers up the crack between Arthur's cheeks, brushing against his entrance; Arthur ducked his head, his cheeks heating up with how much he wanted this.
"Are you sure?" Eames asked, rough and quiet, like he was half-afraid he was dreaming; it did things to Arthur's insides.
"Yes," he said, and the touch disappeared for a moment. Then Eames was pushing two thick, spit-slick fingers into him, and Arthur gasped, tilting his head back.
"Enough," he said, too soon. "Eames, enough."
"Yeah?" Eames said, but he was already slipping his fingers free.
"Yeah," Arthur said, swallowing thickly when he felt the blunt head of Eames' cock at his entrance, one of Eames' hands coming to rest on his hip again.
Eames pressed in, and Arthur bit his lip against the burn, pushing back to take more instead of shying away. Halfway in, Eames paused.
"Alright, love?" He asked, and any other time Arthur might have appreciated the strain of restraint in his voice.
"Fine, I'm fine," Arthur said, digging his nails against the wall. "Move," he commanded, and moaned as Eames did, pushing in until his whole length was buried within Arthur, uncomfortable and perfect; Arthur gasped for breath, his mouth hanging open, and Eames' grip on him tightened.
"Arthur, God," Eames said, pressing his face against Arthur's shoulder as he slowly pulled out again. Arthur shivered at the scrape of stubble against his skin, squeezing his eyes shut against the stretch of Eames' cock forcing him open, the burning slide as Eames set out to find a rhythm. Arthur leaned his head against his forearms, his breath a shuddering, unstable thing. The room was filled with their panting, groaning breaths, the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh, the slide of sweaty skin; Eames kept repeating Arthur's name on broken intervals like it was the only word he knew, his fingers pressing bruises against Arthur's skin, and even as it hurt, it almost wasn't enough.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me," Arthur chanted, pushing his hips back to meet Eames' thrusts, urging him to hold on tighter, fuck him harder; there was pain and desire coiling at the base of his spine, and he bit down on Eames' name, wanting, wanting --
-- and silently, in the privacy of his mind, he thought, Please.
Please.
-
Afterward -- after quick, separate showers and few meaningless words -- Arthur found himself reluctant to go back to the house, and not just because the sex hadn't really resolved anything; when Eames gave no indication of wanting Arthur to leave, Arthur sent Dom a message not to expect him back until tomorrow. He felt wrung out, emotionally more so than physically, and thought it would be better if he and Eames talked about it in the morning, when they were both rested. This thing between them, whatever it was, whatever it could become, felt horribly tentative, fragile; Arthur didn't want to take any chances with it.
When they lay in bed, contentment wrestling with apprehension in the back of Arthur's sleepy mind, he reached out and took hold of Eames' forearm, his fingernails pressing half-moon crescents against the skin there.
"If you're gone when I wake up," he said, "I'll hunt you down and kill you."
Eames took his hand and brought it up to his mouth, the soft press of his lips against Arthur's fingers like a promise. If there were words, Arthur didn't hear them; the kiss still lingered on his skin when sleep swallowed him whole.
-
It was stretching out an arm across the bed and finding nothing but an empty expanse of mattress that had Arthur sitting up and blinking at the empty room before he even realized he'd woken up.
It took him a minute to get his bearings and recognize the sound for what it was -- water being turned off -- and by then Eames had appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked bleary, his hair was sleep tousled, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, half-obscured by stubble; he was by far the most gorgeous thing Arthur had ever seen.
Seeing Arthur awake and sitting up, Eames began to smile; he was reaching for the bathroom light switch when something about Arthur's expression made him pause, the beginnings of his smile fading.
He turned off the light and stepped out of the doorway, his gaze flickering over Arthur, from his too-wide eyes to his hands, which were clenched against the sheets. Arthur tried to relax, to smooth out his expression, but it was too late. He could see it on Eames' face, the moment he put the pieces together.
Arthur drew his knees up and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling pathetic. What a stupid overreaction; a split second of believing Eames had walked out on him, and he was a mess.
"I really did a number on you, didn't I?" Eames said, his expression shuttered.
"It's fine," Arthur said, hoping they could just gloss over it. "I'm fine."
"Like hell you are." Eames crossed his arms, and Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Let's just -- not," he said, wanting to avoid a childish is-isn't argument. "It doesn't matter."
"I thought you wanted to talk," Eames pointed out, and Arthur shrugged, looking away.
"Not about this," he said. "Come on, enough. Come back to bed."
For a moment, Arthur thought Eames might push it, or worse, decide Arthur wasn't worth it after all; Arthur hated himself for feeling so insecure, hated that however confident he'd become in other areas of his life, Eames remained, as always, the exception. He needn't have worried; Eames uncrossed his arms and walked to the bed, climbing in and flopping down on his back next to Arthur with a huff. Arthur remained sitting but twisted around so he didn't have his back to Eames.
Eames was staring at the ceiling, and Arthur took the opportunity to look at him, tracing the lines of Eames' face and body with his eyes, his fingers itching to touch.
"What are we doing?" He asked instead of giving in to the impulse, crossing his arms loosely over his knees.
Eames glanced at him, smiling a little when their eyes met.
"I don't know," he said. "We'll figure it out."
"We will?" Arthur didn't mean to sound skeptical, but it came out that way regardless. Eames looked back at the ceiling.
"I'm not saying it'll be easy," he said, drumming his fingers against his stomach. "To be honest with you, I'm not actually sure I know how to do this."
"Do what?" Arthur asked, frowning.
"Settle down." Eames turned to look at Arthur again. "But I'll try. I'll try, for you."
Arthur swallowed and tried not to let his reaction show.
"Who said anything about settling down," he said, his tone light.
"You know what I mean," Eames said, reaching out to touch Arthur's ankle, dropping his gaze as he rubbed his thumb against the bone there. "A proper relationship, all that comes with it."
"I'm not sure I do," Arthur said, because it was true, and because he was thirsty for Eames' words, for clarity.
"I've always been a bit of a coward when it comes to relationships," Eames said, licking his lips before continuing; "Always taking off rather than taking a chance, never caring enough to put myself at risk. But you -- I don't want to not have you."
"I'm not really good with relationships either," Arthur confessed, feeling awkward. And I don't want to not have you, too, he thought, but the words got stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.
There was a momentary pause, as if Eames was weighing whether he wanted to say whatever he was thinking of saying next, and then asked,
"What about that guy in New York?"
Arthur shrugged, the touch on his ankle suddenly making him uncomfortable; he lay down on his side on the bed, Eames' hand falling away in the process.
"It was never serious. With Hale," Arthur said, shifting against the pillows. "I never wanted it to be."
"So I might've had a chance with you earlier, if I'd tried?" Eames said, looking faintly troubled. Arthur picked at the sheets, absent-minded.
"Could be," he said, because he still wasn't ready to give Eames everything.
"I thought about it," Eames said, abrupt. "About asking you out, proper like, after. But there was that picture, of you and him." The Fischer job, Arthur thought, feeling a trace of something like relief, remembering how he'd felt, thinking Eames had walked away with no second thoughts after the job. "And I figured, that was that," Eames was saying. "I wasn't going to put myself on the line when it was clear that you were finished with me, and had been for years. I hadn't any right to mess with that, especially after what I did when we first met."
Arthur tilted his head, looking at Eames profile.
"But you didn't stay away," he pointed out.
"No," Eames said, glancing at Arthur with a rueful quirk of his lips. "I've always liked you more than is good for either of us, and it turns out I'm not that different, after all, from when we first met. You've fallen in with a selfish man, my love." He turned toward Arthur, holding his gaze. "I may not be any good at this, Arthur, but I have no intention of letting you go now that I have you."
Arthur tried to bite down on a smile but failed; he could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then Eames was smiling too, slow and real, and it made Arthur feel light-headed. Eames reached out, touching his fingertips against Arthur's dimples. It was a little bit embarrassing but just then, Arthur didn't care.
Eames brushed his fingers over Arthur's cheekbone, around his ear; the look in his eyes was soft, unguarded.
"I should've realized earlier that you weren't with Hale anymore, but I was avoiding the topic on purpose. You're a bit of a blind spot to me," Eames said, and Arthur's smile slowly faded into something smaller, more private.
"That's -- comforting, actually," he said, running his fingertips over Eames' forearm, back and forth. "Inconvenient, but comforting."
Eames slid his hand down Arthur's neck and to his shoulder. He pushed Arthur on his back and rose up on his elbow in one fluid movement; Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't protest.
"I don't know about comforting," Eames said. "For someone as smart as I am, I can be distressingly, willfully unobservant at times."
"Modest too," Arthur replied. "And it was to protect yourself; that's understandable."
"Not how I would've put it, but fair enough," Eames said, sliding his hand down Arthur's chest, pausing to play with a nipple before running his fingers down the ladder of Arthur's ribs.
"I can deal with it," Arthur promised, shifting against the bed, pushing subtly into the touch. "I can deal with you."
"Now that," Eames said, wrapping his hand loosely around Arthur's half-hard cock, "I find comforting."
"As you should," Arthur said, his breath hitching as Eames tightened his hold and dragged his fist upward.
Eames ducked his head and licked a stripe up to the nipple he'd previously neglected, pulling out a strangled moan from Arthur when he bit down on it.
Under Eames' ministrations, getting fully hard was little more than an afterthought, and Arthur was left blinking at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing. He didn't want to come from just a handjob; proper motivation or not, he thought, thinking back to that first time, he wasn't seventeen anymore. He took hold of Eames' wrist and pushed his hand further down, unmistakable in its intent.
Eames lifted his head and arched an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything, just glanced down at where his hand disappeared between Arthur's legs and licked his lips.
"This is what you want?" He asked, his fingertips brushing against Arthur's ass cheeks but not dipping down into the crack between.
"Yes," Arthur said, drawing his legs further up and canting his hips. "You don't have to keep asking."
"I want to," Eames said, bending down to nip at Arthur's jaw.
"I'm not seventeen anymore," Arthur said, beginning to tense up.
"I know." When Eames lifted his head, there was a frown marring his expression. He slid a heavy hand up the inside of Arthur's thigh, soothing. "I know that."
"Do you wish I still was?" Arthur demanded; it was irrational, but suddenly he couldn't stop thinking that maybe Eames hadn't been telling the truth about the projection after all, that maybe --
"No," Eames said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He nudged one of Arthur's legs further up and to the side, and touched the skin behind Arthur's balls with his thumb, pressing down, making Arthur jump a little, his stomach tensing and relaxing at the touch.
"You aren't who you were when we first met, neither of us is, and that's fine," Eames was saying even as he pushed his fingers gently against Arthur's hole; Arthur shivered, oversensitive, and thought of how unfair Eames was being, using his body to distract him. "I'm not pining over some kid I met in my twenties, even if that kid was you; but the years that changed you -- I have no part in them. I know that's how it had to be, but don't just expect me to forget. Don't expect me to have no regrets."
"Eames --"
"I kept tabs on you," Eames said, talking over him, his expression intense, the touch of his fingers shallow, a tease more than anything else; "Especially after Mal. And I didn't notice it at first, but the way we never ended up working together before the Fischer job? I know you did that on purpose."
"I don't --" Arthur started to say, and broke off on a gasp when one of Eames' fingers breached him dry, making him wince; it retreated almost immediately.
"Never mind," Eames said, his fingertips brushing against the rim of Arthur's hole almost apologetically. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say. The projection --"
"I thought you didn't have anything more to say about that," Arthur said, licking his lips.
"It seems I was wrong, then," Eames said. Arthur lifted a hand to his cheek, touching the fragile skin below the eye; Eames' lashes brushed against Arthur's fingertips when he blinked. "I wouldn't want you to be seventeen again, believe me. But I can't deny that some part of me resents the years that changed you, resents having had no part in them, and I suppose -- I wanted a reminder of who you used to be."
"Who I used to be." Arthur wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. Eames bent down and pressed his lips against Arthur's, a soft, lingering pressure.
"Mine," Eames said when their lips parted, and Arthur was left staring at Eames, at the expression in his eyes; "You used to be mine, however briefly, however little I appreciated it at the time."
"You're such a fool," Arthur managed to say, his voice thick, and Eames chuckled, burying his face against Arthur's throat.
"I'm aware," he muttered against Arthur's skin. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, tangling one hand in Eames' hair.
"God," Arthur said a moment later, scowling at the ceiling. "I can't believe we're having this conversation while you have your hand on my ass."
Eames' frame shook as he laughed, and Arthur rolled his eyes even though there was a smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth.
"No, you're right," Eames said when he got himself under control, extracting himself from Arthur's hold. "We should be making better use of our time."
He removed his hand from between Arthur's legs and leaned over him, reaching for the lube on the bedside table -- some things never changed.
Arthur snorted but didn't pretend he'd been wishing for any other outcome; he spread his legs for Eames, who shifted to kneel between them, and welcomed back the now slick fingers.
"We're good, right?" Eames asked, spreading the lube around the rim before slowly pushing one finger in.
"We're good," Arthur said, his voice catching in his throat. He was still sore from the night before but more than that, he felt greedy, wanton. He wanted Eames; it seemed like he always would.
By the time Eames was lining up his cock, Arthur was a shivering mess of want and frustration -- and then Eames stopped, his expression turning awkward.
"What?" Arthur rose up on his elbows, breathless and annoyed at the delay.
"Condoms," Eames said, scratching the back of his head with the hand not covered in slick. "I only had the one we used last night."
Arthur dropped back against the pillows with a groan.
"I take it you don't have any either." Eames sounded resigned.
"I came here to talk," Arthur said, feeling grumpy. He weighed his options and found them all lacking; he wished he could have been surprised that a heartbeat later, he made the sort of stupid, reckless decision he'd thought he'd grown out of.
"Are you clean?" He asked, locking his eyes with Eames'.
"Yes. But darling," Eames had the nerve to say, "You can't just take my word for it."
Arthur brushed away his irritation at Eames' condescending tone; there were more important matters at hand.
"I can, if you take mine," Arthur said with the sort of logic that should have only been used by very drunk, very desperate people, if then; "I got my test results back four months ago, and I haven't been with anyone since."
"You know better than this," Eames said, rubbing his thumb against Arthur's knee. "I know better than this."
The head of his cock nudged at Arthur's entrance, hot and sticky, and Arthur couldn't stand the thought of not having it inside of him within the next five minutes.
"Eames," Arthur said -- pleaded -- and that's all it took; Eames leaned over him and made a noise that could have been classified as a growl, pushing in.
Eames had spent far too long stretching him, his blunt, thick fingers working Arthur open, soothing away the soreness from the night before; Arthur still ached around the intrusion, but it was sweet, like summer wine.
"Arthur," Eames said when he was all the way in, his weight settling in the cradle of Arthur's hips. He was breathing hard, his eyes closed; Arthur's mouth was dry, and he pulled his knees further up, groaning at the shift of Eames' length within his body.
"It's good," he breathed, leaving lingering touches on Eames' cheeks, his throat, his shoulders. It's always good with you.
Arthur bit his lip when Eames slowly pulled out until just the head was inside, stretching his entrance, and then pressed back in, an unhurried, torturous slide that made Arthur swallow down a desperate whine.
By the fourth thrust, Arthur's thighs were trembling against Eames' flanks, and they were both slick with perspiration; Arthur could feel it pooling at the hollow of his throat, and his cock was dragging against Eames' stomach, pre-come mixing with sweat.
Eames licked at the seam of Arthur's lips, making Arthur realize he was biting his lip again; he opened his mouth with a gasp, straining a little to capture Eames' mouth into a kiss, gentle teeth and slick skin, a hundred nerve endings lighting up and begging for more.
"You're still here," Arthur murmured when their mouths parted, something a little bit like awe slipping into his voice.
"Where else would I be?" Eames said, his teeth grazing Arthur's swollen lower lip even as his hands slid up Arthur's arms and pushed them against the bed, holding them there. He was slow to pick up his pace, but Arthur didn't mind, feeling intoxicated as he closed his eyes and rocked into Eames' lazy, measured thrusts, grateful for every touch, every ache.
"You like this?" Eames sounded half-drunk himself. "Being under me; being held down, held open."
"Yes." It was the simplest truth Arthur knew, and he was years past feeling ashamed of his own desires.
Eames' hands tightened around his wrists compulsively, and Arthur's hips twitched, his legs falling open, begging for more.
"Bleeding, buggering fuck," Eames groaned. "You'll be the death of me."
Arthur opened his eyes, feeling his eyelashes separate from each other where they'd gotten clumped together, and summoned up a smirk.
"Is this your way of telling me my death threats get you off?" He inquired, and Eames' narrowed his eyes. His next thrust was sharp, ungentle, and made Arthur's toes curl against the sheets.
"I'd almost forgotten what an impertinent little brat you can be," Eames said with a nip at Arthur's collarbone.
"Ah," Arthur laughed, blinking sweat from his eyes. "Sweet-talking will get you everywhere."
"I'm already right where I want to be," Eames said.
"There goes my leverage," Arthur said, his eyes crinkling.
"You're impossible." Eames shook his head, but he sounded unbearably fond, like nothing Arthur had ever thought he'd hear.
"You're one to talk," Arthur said, wrapping his legs around Eames' hips and pulling one hand free to tug Eames down into an open mouthed kiss; he closed his eyes and let himself drown in it.
Arthur came first, making a mess between their bodies. Eames followed him shortly after, his rhythm faltering, his hips jerking as he came, spilling inside Arthur, filling him up; Arthur's cock twitched, making a valiant but doomed effort at showing its appreciation, and Arthur let out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan when Eames carefully pulled out.
"What?" Eames asked, slumping against Arthur, his face pressed against the side of Arthur's neck. "Are you already laughing at me? You shouldn't even be able to think yet, that's cheating."
"No," Arthur said, sliding his fingers through Eames' hair. "It's nothing. I'm just -- I'm happy," he said, his mirth turning into wonder; "I'm happy," he repeated, his voice soft.
Eames made an effort to rise up on his elbow and just looked at Arthur for a minute, his hand coming up to trace the bridge of Arthur's nose, the bow of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows; then he kissed Arthur, slow and sweet, taking his time.
"Hi," Arthur said, his cheeks dimpling, when Eames pulled back.
"Hi," Eames gave him another kiss, shorter this time. "I don't ever want to leave you again," he said. "Not for long; not for good."
"Okay," Arthur said, feeling sore and sticky and content. "I can live with that."
"Good," Eames said, tugging him until they were laying on their sides, facing each other; he pulled Arthur close and ran a possessive hand down his back, his fingers dipping down to where Arthur was still stretched open, Eames' come trickling out of him, smearing the sheets, the backs of his thighs.
Arthur pressed his lips briefly against Eames' chest and closed his eyes, his hand splayed against Eames' back. This thing they had, it wasn't perfect; it was better than that.
It was the closest thing to home Arthur could imagine.
****
fin